


Batboy, Batboys what ya gonna do...

by TheViperQueen



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Now with angst!, Pregnancy Scares, Sasha's a thot, Spaghetti Monster summoning charms, Warnings for Jason Todd and his chaotic relationship energy, also i'm terrible at naming things, and summaries, and tagging stuff tbh, if he don't let you use his extra bo staffs it ain't REAL, jason is the hottest of messes, nightmare fuel in the form of creepypastas, no betas we die like Jason Todd, older!Damian, pet sitting gone awry, silly shit, that's a thing that's happening, the Batboys as dads give me LIFE, they all are really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheViperQueen/pseuds/TheViperQueen
Summary: Just some reader insert fics with everyone's favorite Batboys. Sometimes fluffy, sometimes silly, sometimes angst-y, and sometimes a weird combination of all three.As with everything I write, updated as the mood strikes*.*Note: Holding ones breath over updates is not advisable.Up Next:Chapter 2:"I'm late."Presented For your consideration/entertainment:Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect)[Jason Todd x Reader]Just because you weren’t ready didn’t mean that you didn’t want it...You and Me Both, Babe[Tim Drake x Reader]When you see an opportunity you take it. That’s one of the things he loves about you the most.Whole[Dick Grayson x Reader]You all click together, like the fitting of a puzzle’s pieces into place.No Words Needed[Older!Damian Wayne x Reader]In raising your daughter, he’s finding himself.ANDChapter 3:Dating J. Todd be Like (Pt. 1)Jason Peter Todd is a living conduit for chaotic relationship energy.





	1. "She's hiding under the sofa."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AspiratingAnxiety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/gifts).



> So yeah, this is the new fandom hell I've decided to cast my lot with lol.  
> If anyone seems OOC it's because I've never bothered to read any of the comics and if I'm being 100% honest I probably never will. But it's fine I've got the power of wikis and headcanons on my side (besides I've always ever viewed canon as more of a suggestion than anything).
> 
> Also! This is a gift for the ever-lovely AspiratingAnxiety [how sad is it that, after years of being on this site, I still don't know how to tag people?]  
> Check her stuff out; she's great, you'll love her.
> 
> Okay, that's enough from me. I'll leave you to (hopefully!) enjoy!

Presented For your consideration/entertainment:

**The Curious Case of the Girl in the Library** [Dick Grayson x Reader] 

> _Hide and seek shenanigans, with bonus Dami and Titus._

**Of Creepypastas and Bo Staffs** [Timothy Drake x Reader] 

> _A movie night goes awry. Tim may or may not be banned from making the movie night selection for the foreseeable future..._

_**Damian Wayne, Rabbit Whisperer** _[Older!Damian Wayne x Reader] 

> _Animals just love the young Mister Wayne._

**Sasha, Sasha, where for art thou Sasha…** [Jason Todd x Reader] 

> _Given how long you’ve been dating him, you probably should’ve seen this coming..._

* * *

_**The Curious Case of the Girl in the Library  
**_[Dick Grayson x Reader]

Damian looks up from the book he’s been reading with an arched brow. Under normal circumstances seeing a woman panting and frantic would give rise to his protective instincts, but the flush in her cheeks is a warm one and the glint in her eyes amused, if a bit pleading. It takes her far longer than it should to notice him and the Great Dane at his feet, but to her credit she doesn’t allow her shock to register over much.

“I can only assume that you and Grayson are playing at yet another inane game?” he asks as he marks his page with a finger.

Her responding nod is a bit absent as her eyes dart about the breadth of the library. “Yeah. Hide and go seek—extreme edition.”

“And what, pray tell, makes it ‘extreme’?”

“The uhhh… penalty round…”

Her cheeks go impossibly redder as she utters the words.  
He doesn’t inquire further.

Despite the size of the room, there is little in the way of concealment; the heavy velvet curtains are too obvious a spot, the statues too narrow, and the over-sized furniture all sits up on legs high enough to make them ineffective for her purposes. When the boy tells her as much she just huffs.

“He was right on my ass, Dami. There’s no way I’m getting out of this room without getting caught.”

“Hmm. Well I suppose you could always hide behind this couch,” he offers with a pat at the ornate cushioning that currently cradles him. “It’s close to the wall and with Titus here to block the view you won’t be immediately seen.”

A hasty _“You’re the best!”_ is all the thanks he gets as she all but dives behind the couch. For his part Titus gives her a few cursory sniffs before lowering his head and giving in to sleep once more. It takes well over thirty seconds for the woman’s breaths to even out into something less obvious than the laughter-laced huffs it started out as. In a show of unspoken solidarity, the boy in turn syncs his own breathing with hers, thus lowering her chance of detection by at least another twenty or so percent.

_And just in time, too_ , he muses as the eldest of his brothers bounds through the door just seconds later. Grayson's eyes scan the room in much the same way as his beloved’s did only moments before, though he clearly notices Damian much sooner than she had.

“Heya, Dami.”

“Richard,” he replies with a nod as he looks up from his book yet again. He watches as the man peeks under a nearby table before inquiring as to just what it is he’s doing.

“Just looking for my darling girlfriend. She uhh, she wouldn’t happen to be in here, would she?”

“Please refrain from involving me in your games, Grayson.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The boy’s only reply is a long-suffering sigh. He turns his face back to the book in his lap, but his every sense is tuned into what the man is doing—not that it’s much of a feat, what with the way he’s bouncing around from window to window whipping back curtains with equal amounts of flair and abandon. An overly dramatic _“Is she… **here**?”_ accompanies every flap of fabric, much to his brother’s annoyance and his girlfriend’s growing amusement.

_Keep it together_ , Damian silently pleads when a particularly noisy giggle escapes from the confines of her hiding spot. Grayson’s in the middle of yet another exclamation so it more than likely goes unheard, but he coughs and clears his throat anyhow. He isn’t sure how he’s managed to become so heavily invested in the woman’s victory, but writes it off to the quite charm that she wields without thought or effort. Richard may have made some questionable decisions with previous romantic partners, but this latest one is, as Drake had so succinctly put it, _‘a keeper’._

“If you’re quite finished kicking up several weeks’ worth of dust…?”

“Alright, alright,” he says with hands raised in concession. “Enjoy your book, little bro, I’m out.” The man makes it halfway to the door when another bout of stifled laughter starts up.

_Why?_ Damian silently laments. There is no reason for it that he can see. Richard was leaving, _they_ had _won_. Even muffled there is no denying the distinct cadence of her laugh and Grayson’s eyes narrow as he looks towards the sound’s source.

“She’s hiding behind the sofa.” His statement brokers no response, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get one.

“No.”

**_Giggle-snort._ **

_Damn._

“Ha! I _knew_ it!”

_Well_ , he muses as he watches his brother toss the giggling mess of a human over his shoulder, _I tried, at least._

-x-x-x-

_**Of Creepypastas and Bo Staffs  
**_[Timothy Drake x Reader]

It takes Tim far longer to realize that his girl isn’t in the spot that he’d left her in than it probably should. Honestly if his arm hadn’t slid down the back of the couch instead of landing on her shoulders as intended he probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.

Blame sleep deprivation, he certainly does.

When a quick scan of the room doesn’t yield her shapely figure he turns his eyes towards the hall leading to the back of the apartment, but… Nope. All the doors are opened and the lights are off. The first real trickles of worry begin to set in at the sight, but he holds them at bay. He’d only gone to the kitchen which is right off of the front room; even with the sounds of popping kernels filling up the space he still would’ve heard an intruder or any cries for help. It’s with this reassurance in mind that he calls out to her. The reply he gets is hardly what he’s expecting.

“I’m here, I’m just hiding behind the sofa…”  
She says it like it’s normal, natural, _obvious_.

Gripping the bowl of spiked popcorn—because the only way to make the fluffy, butter clouds better is to add a copious amount of candy—closer to his chest he peers over the back of the couch and sure enough there she is. The sight of her staring up at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow is as confusing as it is adorable, though given how pissed she looks he wisely chooses not to voice that last bit.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“You have terrible taste in movies.”

“So you hid behind the couch?”

“…Don’t judge me, Timothy. This shit’s terrifying, and you weren’t here; I did what I had to do.”

He chuckles at that. “Fair enough. So, umm, is there any way I can convince you to join me up here again?”

“You bring the good-good?” He produces the half empty pastel pink bag, its contents a Japanese confection that he’d picked up on a business trip to Tokyo the previous month. “Nice. Make a hole, coming in hot!”

She slides over the back of the couch like a large boneless cat; it’s hardly as graceful as the _‘Grayson-level shit’_ that she apparently pulled to get herself behind the thing in the first place but then again the motivation isn’t as great either. Limbs, snacks, and blankets are rearranged until they’re once again positioned comfortably. He doesn’t bother with rewinding the movie as he’s already familiar with the creepypasta that it’s based on and she’s not interested in seeing more than what’s strictly necessary. The way she clings to his side makes his heart twinge in that weird way that he’s not quite ready to put a name to, so he doesn’t; instead he thanks every entity that will have his words for granting him such a gift as the woman at his side. She’s smart and funny and beautiful in every sense of the word and brave in her own way. He’s seen her stand up for the values and ideals that she holds dear, never allowing shaking hands to deter her for too long, so to have her reduced to a clingy mass by a poorly animated film is more than a little odd (and though he’d never say it aloud, kinda funny-slash-cute).

The creator, wanting to get back to her Newgrounds roots, had opted to use old school flash animation. Her signature style centered around hard, jerky animations which under other circumstances wouldn’t have done much for the narrative, but when combined with the tiny plushie that was hellbent on adding more teeth to its collection...

Well…

“I’ll brew the coffee if you’ll turn on all the lights.”

Her comment comes on the tail end of a scene that’s unsettling enough to leave even his stomach heavy with dread.

“…Only if I can take my bo staff with me.”

“Naturally. I’ll be taking one of your spares; hope you don’t mind.”

“Be my guess. I’ll also assume that we’re never telling anyone that this movie’s got us shook.”

“Oh, of course; goes without saying.”

They nod their understanding and, after sprinting hand-in-hand (with staffs raised against their invisible stalkers) to the room’s light switch, go their separate ways.

-x-x-x-

_**Damian Wayne, Rabbit Whisperer  
**_[Older!Damian Wayne x Reader]

_Dami-baby I need ur help_

**_Of course, beloved. How may I be of assistance?_ **

_I kinda need u to come over and_  
_Uhhh  
_ _Whisper at a rabbit_

**_…  
_ ** **_Explain._ **

_I’m pet sitting for a friend and_  
_Well_  
_I don’t think Chloe likes me v. much_  
_The minute I opened her carrier she kicked away from me and bolted_  
_She’s hiding behind the sofa now and won’t come out  
_ _What do I do???_

**_There’s nothing back there that she can hurt herself on, is there?  
_ ** **_Loose wires, lost trinkets, things of that nature?_ **

_No there shouldn’t be_

**_Okay, good. Keep an eye on her, but don’t get too close; you  
_** **_don’t want to scare her. I’ll be over shortly._ **

You let out a sigh of relief. The cavalry’s coming, huzzah.

When a family emergency had called Jade back to her hometown you think nothing of watching her rabbit for her; after all, you know she wouldn’t hesitate to do the same if the positions were reversed. Loyalty aside, you genuinely like Chloe and you’d thought that the sentiment was returned. Whenever you visited your friend the little Lop always came to you for pats, she took treats from your hand with no problem, she even let you hold her on occasion.

The rosy glow of those prior experiences had led you to believe that it’d be smooth sailing and yet here you are in some quasi-downward dog staring at a chittering, clearly terrified rabbit.

“At least you’re not running around anymore,” you comment, voice as calm and soothing as you can make it. The better part of the last half hour was spent trying to keep her from getting herself wedged somewhere terrible or otherwise hurting herself—quite a feat that, given her speed. You can probably safely skip your cardio workout for the week, honestly; silver-linings and all that.

“You know, I kinda feel like I should’ve seen this coming,” you continue on. “I mean, you were acting a bit skittish when I went to pick you up, but I thought you were just feeding off of Jade’s energy. Nervous owner, nervous pet—it makes sense. Add being taken to a whole new place and well, I get it Chloe, I really do. Change is scary, but it can be good too, you know? Or maybe you don’t, you are just a bun-bun after all. Hell, you probably don’t even know what I’m saying—or maybe you do,” you amend when the creature gives you a rather offended looking stare.

You continue to talk to the rabbit for the next twenty or so minutes, all the while wishing that your boyfriend’ll hurry his ass up. You had assumed that he was at his own apartment which was only a few blocks over—funny how the only thing separating the city’s upper crust from plebs like you is a few scant streets—but given the fact that he still hasn’t arrived yet he was probably at his father’s house. Mansion. _Whatever_.

When Damian finally does show up you’re a good ways into a rant about a particularly annoying co-worker. “…boundaries. That’s all I’m saying, Clo, _boundaries_. You get it, right?”

“Making friends?”

His voice is dry, but fond from where it sounds from above you. You spare him a glance that says his particular brand of humor is neither wanted nor appreciated at the moment, before quickly turning your attention back to the little bundle of fur. You expect her to tense up at his arrival, but if anything she actually seems calmer. Fair enough, you suppose; Damian’s voice is like a fine whiskey, all smooth and deliciously smoky and he wields it like a blade. When he pitches it just right it’s been scientifically proven to relax any and all beings within a ten foot radius. What isn’t fair, however, is the fact that as soon as he sits down beside you Chloe comes hopping over to sniff at his outstretched hand.

“I– You– _What?_ ” Confusion and no small amount of annoyance leaves you unable to do anything but sputter as he coaxes the rabbit from under the sofa and into his lap. “ _Traitor_.”

He cocks one perfect brow at you. “Me or her?”

“ _Both_.”

“Well, beloved, you _did_ ask me to ‘whisper’ at her.”

“Oh hush.”

That earns an amused smile, though he has the good grace to at least try to subdue it. “If that’s really what you want, but a couple of requests first—if I may?”

“…What?”

“Food; not for myself, but for Chloe. I’m sure that all of that running around left her with quite the appetite.”

“And?” you prompt when the second half of his request isn’t immediately forthcoming.

“A kiss before you go?”

Damian rarely asks for kisses, always preferring to be the pursuer rather than the pursued; his words are clearly meant to act as an olive branch and you find yourself grasping at it with little more than a mildly long-suffering sigh. You move slowly towards him, not wanting to startle the bunny he has tucked tightly against his side and press your lips against his; he’s soft and tastes slightly of something spicy and warm—a chai blend, possibly?

Though the thought is tempting, you don’t linger to find out; there’s a fur-baby that needs tending to, after all.

-x-x-x-

_**Sasha, Sasha, where for art thou Sasha…  
**_[Jason Todd x Reader]

“Where is she, where is she…?”

You barely even blink when a strong arm lifts you off of the bed and tucks you in against an equally muscled chest; Jason’s free hand begins to rummage through the mess of sheets in search of who, or rather, _what_ he’s looking for. As to the identity of this ever elusive _she_ you can’t say for certain, but you can make an educated guess. Even so–

“Looking for something, babe?” Your eyes never once leave the page you’re reading, though you do divide your attention long enough to pose your question.

“Yeah. Sasha.”

_Sasha_. Of course.  
The thot that you share your man, and your bed, with.

You’ve never understood why he names his weapons, nor why he insists on referring to all of them as _she_ ’s but whatever; he’s about to head out for patrol and this isn’t the time to rehash that particular discussion again. You do, however, know why he’d think to check the bed for his precious Sasha. The fact that his sleeping with a gun under his pillow isn’t your biggest gripe with the situation would probably strike most people as odd, but then again there’s very little about your relationship with Jason that’s actually normal (and besides he always makes sure to eject the clip before turning in so there’s also that).

“ _She_ is behind the sofa,” you inform him, tone bored.

He gives you a look then. “What’s she doing back there?”

“Probably hiding from yo’ clingy ass. Now will you please put me down so I can go back to my reading?”

With reflexes that can only be described as ‘god-tier’, he snatches the book from your hands and tosses it carelessly amongst the tangle of sheets and pillows. The indignant squeak you let out quickly morphs into a scream-slash-giggle as you too are dropped back down onto the mattress; he follows you down, and you soon find yourself caged in by his long limbs and massive bulk. Warm, slightly wind-chapped lips attack your neck and work upwards until his breath is ghosting against your lips. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your hands are in his hair and he’s _right there_ so _why isn’t he kissing you, dammit?_

He laughs then, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his throat, and you groan. You know what that sound means, have heard it before when you’re destined to be left wound up and wanting. _And what did you expect?_ you silently chastise. _He’s damn near late for his shift as it is…_

“My ‘clingy ass’, huh?” He doesn’t even give you a consolation peck; no, the asshole just rolls off of you and straightens out his clothes as if the last thirty seconds never happened.

“ _You are so petty_.”

“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “But don’t worry, baby, I got you when I get home.”

His words leave you shivering despite the heat coursing its way through your system.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the course of your relationship it’s this one simple truth: Jason Peter Todd doesn’t make threats, he makes promises. And he always, _always_ keeps his promises.


	2. "I'm late."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** “I’m late.”
> 
> _Presented For your consideration/entertainment:_
> 
> **Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect)** [Jason Todd x Reader]  
>  _Just because you weren’t ready didn’t mean that you didn’t want it..._
> 
>  **You and Me Both, Babe** [Tim Drake x Reader]  
>  _When you see an opportunity you take it. That’s one of the things he loves about you the most._
> 
>  **Whole** [Dick Grayson x Reader]  
>  _You all click together, like the fitting of a puzzle’s pieces into place._
> 
>  **No Words Needed** [Older!Damian Wayne x Reader]  
>  _In raising your daughter, he’s finding himself._

**_Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect)  
_** [Jason Todd x Reader]

As you stare down at the single pink line on the tiny display your feelings are mixed.

On the one hand you’re hardly ready to raise a child, not when you still feel like a kid yourself most days, and that’s saying nothing of Jay’s chosen profession. Vigilantism is hardly conducive to home and hearth, after all. But despite knowing all of this you still feel… oddly crushed?

In the hours since your shaky murmur of _“I’m late”_ was breathed into the crook of his neck, visions of little girls with inky ringlets and toddling boys with irises the color of a Caribbean tide had embedded themselves in your mind’s eye. With each minute that passed you allowed yourself to dream up a whole new life with Jason, one full of tiny giggles and toothless smiles and scabby knees. You saw your son seated aloft his broad shoulders, content and happy; your daughter on his knee as he read her his favorite Doctor Seuss book; you saw a future filled to bursting with things you’d never knew you wanted, knew you _needed_ until that moment.

Hours to build up that new life in your head, and only two minutes to see it collapse around you.

“Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed?”

You finally tear your eyes away from the line, but you still can’t bring yourself to face the man that hovers behind you. “No,” you start after a few long seconds. “But it’s for the best… Right?”

You don’t know what Jay sees in your eyes when you finally meet his in the bathroom’s mirror, but you do know what you see in his—that same future that had shone so brief, but brilliant.

There’s a gentleness in his gaze, a fragility that leaves you choking on a sob. Before the first tears even fully form you’re being spun around and gathered up into his arms. Jason’s hands trail the length of your spine in long, lulling strokes even as you dig your nails into the muscles of his back and pull yourself flush against him. Your grip is firm bordering on bruising, but if it hurts him he doesn’t show it. He whispers words of comfort that echo in his chest, and reverberate through you. The feeling registers more than his voice, and while it’s calming in a way it still not enough.

“This is so stupid. Why am I crying? I’m not pregnant so I can’t even blame my hormones!” The sentences come between heaving breaths and gasping sobs.

“It’s not stupid,” he assures you, hands still working at soothing your quaking frame. “If you want a family with me honey, you say the word and I’ll give you one. But it’ll be on _our_ terms, and not the result of a bad batch of birth control or a faulty Trojan.”

You laugh a bit at that, sniff loudly, then look up at him. You know you must be a sight—eyes and nose red and wet, face splotchy and puffy—but he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. Your answering smile is a small thing that trembles a bit with the last dregs of your breakdown, but it’s there and it’s real and it’s hopeful. You don’t know when the pair of you will be ready for a family, if ever, but just knowing that the option is there enough for now.

Jay returns your smile as he wipes away the wetness on you cheeks with soft motions and gentle hands. In the face of such tenderness and care there’s only one thing to be said—“I love you.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no cockiness behind the words, only confidence in what the two of you share. “And I love you too.”

“That’s good to hear, especially after what I just did to your shirt.”

“What? You mean the scratching? Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a hell of a grip babe, but it’s not nearly enough to do any real damage.”

“No, not that—but also sorry for that.”

“No harm, no foul, doll. Hey, that rhymed! Aww, come on now! Don’t roll your eyes baby—respect my flow.”

“Whatever,” you say around a laugh as you push away from him. “Go get some real bars and change your shirt.”

“ _Pssh_. Please woman, my bars and my shirt are both tight as hell.” He pulls at the compression material then and releases it; how he manages to avoid pinching himself in the process is a mystery, but the audible _pop_ of it snapping back in place leaves you with the impression that the action has the potential to be just as painful.

“Tight or not, I’m pretty sure that the Absorbent Tip TM was pressing into your back for a while there sooo... yeah. You might want to take care of that.”

It takes a second for him to realize what that means, but once he does…The look of mild disgust that flashes across his face leaves you snickering even as you apologize.

“You could at least pretend to feel bad about this, you know,” he says with a shake of his head. “But hell babe, if you wanted me to lose the shirt all you had to do was ask.”

The laughter dies on your lips as he reaches behind himself to grab a handful of the black tee; a tug and what has to be an unnecessary amount of flexing sees the clingy scrap of material removed and tossed away. Your eyes narrow as you take in your stupid, sexy, smirking, cocky cock of a boyfriend, but there’s no denying the wicked gleam in his eye or the way it affects you.

You might not be ready to make a baby right at this very moment, but there’s nothing wrong with a little practice…

* * *

**_You and Me Both, Babe  
_** [Tim Drake x Reader]

Your home smells _amazing_ right now.

The warm, hardy scent of fresh baked bread is cut through by the tang of herbs simmering in a tomato-based sauce. The meatballs—recipe compliments of Alfred—adds a richness to it all, while the lemon rinds that’re left over from the vinaigrette you’d whipped up earlier adds a nice, citrus-y note that, while not readily identifiable, does help to lighten the dense canopy of the more cloying aromas.

Though it smells divine, the spread is far from elaborate. Spaghetti and meatballs, breadsticks, and salad—hardly the meal one would expect the wife of the heir to the Wayne Enterprises throne to prepare for dinner, but then again one would hardly expect you to cook for yourself at all.

Driven by paranoia and practicality in mostly equal measure, both you and Tim decided against hiring someone to help around the house. Paranoia because, even if the dangers of his night job could be ignored, there's still a certain amount of caution to be exercised just from bearing the family name; practicality because, despite the square footage, your high rise apartment's easily maintained by the two of you. Keeping yourselves fed is a bit trickier given your schedules, but between Alfred occasionally dropping off pre-made meals (with heating instructions simple enough that even your husband in his base, half-sleep state can follow) and honing the magical skill that is meal prepping (this too is a gift imparted by the aging man, _bless him_ ) you have a solid, home-cooked meal at least four days out of the week.

Your phone chirps an alarm that tells you it’s time to pull the pasta from the heat; after a quick drain it’s tossed with the red sauce and meatballs before being transferred to a serving dish. The whole of the meal is then moved to the dining table and then you’re hurrying off to the other end of the flat to change (because while _eau de marinara_ might work for spaghetti it does very little for you).

As with the meal, there’s nothing fancy to be found in your chosen attire. The sweater you slip on was actually Tim’s once upon a time—though after finding you puttering around his kitchen in nothing but the over-sized garment he had decided that it looked much better on you…

_“Keep it.”_

_You’d grown used to his ability to move about in virtual silence, but knowing what Tim was capable of didn’t leave you any better equipped to deal with it. Breathing in sharply, you whipped your head towards the man hard and fast enough that whiplash was a legitimate concern. You had fully intended to threaten him with a bell collar yet again, but the smile he gave you was so dopey, so damn lovesick that all the fight bled right out of you. Suddenly shy in the face his unabashed adoration, you quickly turned your attention back to the omelet you’d been assembling. A few seconds passed before you remembered the words that had startled you in the first place._

_“Keep what?”_

_“The sweater,” he said, voice sounding from far nearer as he made his way towards you. A few long strides saw strong arms wrapping around your middle and lips at your ear. “Looks good on you.” The sentence was little more than a whisper, a breath of a thing that would’ve went unheard had he not been so close. His nose followed the curve of your ear upwards until he was able to press a lingering kiss to your temple._

_Your breath caught and the rose dust that stained you cheeks deepened.  
The sweater. You’d honestly forgotten that you were wearing it._

_You hadn’t felt like wresting yourself back into the restricting clothing you’d worn the night before, but walking around completely naked wasn’t an option you were willing to entertain either. Silly, given that he’d already seen you in naught but your skin, but still—‘leave something to the imagination’ and all that jazz. The thing was big and warm, almost too warm in the heated apartment, and still smelled like him. The V of the neckline and the sleeves both hung down far lower than what was necessary for your purposes; there was nothing to be done about the former, but the latter was quickly remedied with several cuffing rolls. Over the course of you washing, chopping, and whisking the various ingredients those cuffs had slowly loosened—more so on your dominate arm; annoying but expected—and the collar had drifted off to the left leaving the shoulder there on display. Having to constantly shrug the thing back into some semblance of order was annoying, but when a pair of warm lips pressed against the once again exposed skin._

_Well._

_Tim might’ve thought the sweater looked better on you, but you both agreed that it was at its best left in a careless heap on the floor._

The memory is an old one, but it’s just as warm and vivid now as it was when you made it. It was the first time you had spent the night at his place, and though neither of you actively acknowledged it then, that was the day that you both knew you’d found the ever elusive _one_. Moments like that could never fall prey to the dulling touch of time.

The sleeves, so used to being cuffed after years of the action, roll into place effortlessly. Joggers are exchanged for a pair of jeans and then you’re swapping out your fuzzy socks for ones not covered in rogue marinara drips. You don’t bother with makeup though you do spare a few minutes to sort out your hair from the messy style you’d thrown it into before cooking. Satisfied with your appearance, you go to your purse and pull out the paper that confirmed what you already knew.

An absentee period combined with the three EPTs you’d taken yesterday was enough to convince you that your body did indeed have a new tenant, but much like your husband you liked redundancy so off to the clinic you went. Two samples later and Doctor Thomas was sending you on your way with a promise to put a rush on the blood analysis, and she’d kept her word. An hour after Tim had left this morning you were getting a fax full of medical jargon about hormone levels and percentages.

You still can’t make heads or tails of most of it, but the gist is clear—you’re going to be a mother.  
And Tim—your sweet, precious, adoring husband—is going to be a father.

Any trepidation you may have felt over the matter is instantly quelled by just the thought of him alone. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is the most loving, caring, reliable man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and cliché though it might be, you know that there’s nothing that you can’t face so long as you’re together.

You fold the paper over and tuck it into your back pocket, all the while smiling so hard that your cheeks actually begin to ache. _A mom. I’m going to be a **mom**._ The thought leaves you full of a joy that can’t be contained. It manifests itself in the bounce of your walk and the childlike swing of your arms as you head back to the dining room to ready the plates.

You want Tim as relaxed as possible when you give him the big news, not out of fear, but rather so he’ll have the mental clarity to properly process it. Though he does his best to shake it off during his commute, work has a tendency to follow him home; sometimes in the form of actual tasks that still need to be seen to, while others its complaints about the Board and their _“–total lack of insight as to how the world actually works.”_ You have no problem with letting him blow off some steam, welcome it even, as it’s better than him falling back on his old habit of bottling everything up. You’re his sounding board, his anchor, a tether that will always pull him back to calmer waters. To this end you have many methods at your disposal, and at least several of them involve food.

Feeling kind of fancy, you decide to try to plate the pasta using that neat little trick that Alfred had showed you with the tongs and the spoon; it takes a few tries, but eventually you end up with two perfect mounds of spaghetti. Unfortunately this leaves no place for the meatballs except for around said mounds. You place them as artistically as you can, but it still ends up looking like something that could potentially summon the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

 _Eh well, I married a nerd; if anyone can appreciate it, it’d be him._ The musing pulls a giggle from already smiling lips. 

The salad takes a lot less effort, though you do make a mental note to thank Jay again for linking you to those vinaigrette recipes. Habit has you reaching for wine glasses and a nice vintage, but then you remember the little bean growing inside of you and stop. You’ve heard it said that one glass of wine a day is actually acceptable, but you’re not so sure. 

_Better safe than sorry_ , you reason as you fill them with water instead. _Though it is something to look up._ A fair bit of research is definitely in your future—well, Tim’s more so than yours. The man never braves any new territory without first arming himself to the teeth with every scrap of intel available to him, and you know that your pregnancy will be no different. 

With the table now fully set there’s nothing left to do but wait, and so you grab your phone and slump down in your seat. A quick time check tells you that Tim should be home any minute, but you’re too restless to sit idle. Needing something, _anything_ , to save you from yourself you pull up a game on your phone and start swiping. The first few levels you tackle are defeated easily enough thanks to the power-ups you’ve been hording like some techno-centric millennial dragon, but once you run out you essentially hit a wall. A courtesy hour of unlimited lives means you get lost to the menial task, so much so that you don’t even realize Tim’s home until he shuffles into the room. 

“Hey sweets,” he says as he leans down to press a kiss against your forehead. “I’m late, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Ten minutes is hardly ‘late’, love.” 

“Yeah, but still…” 

The exchange is as familiar as anything else in your relationship. Early on in your platonic days you had learned that Tim offering up his time to you was among the most significant displays of affection in his arsenal. Hardly surprising given that between the day job that is his necessity and the night gig that is his passion, there’s not much of it to be had that isn’t already accounted for. Free time was more often than not a concept for the man, not a reality, but he had made it more than clear that what little he had was yours if you’d have it. 

The moment his forehead leans heavy against yours you know you’re going to have to abandon your initial plan; he’s clearly world-weary and in need of some good news ASAP. Besides, you’ll never be able to forgive yourself if you allow a setup as prime as the one he just handed you to pass by. When you retell this story to your future child years from now—hell when you tell it to your family and friends over the next few days—this one-liner will be a distinct a point of quipping pride.

Really, you owe it to you all. 

Your lips curl upwards in anticipation of the sentence that will leave people both within and without the Wayne clan face-palming for years to come— 

“It’s okay, babe—I’m late too.” 

For his part Tim just blinks a few times in confusion, clearly ignorant of the excellence he’d just bore witness to. With his brows draw inwards and a slight pout on his lips he’s pretty much the human equivalent of a puppy; the curiosity that tints the sapphires that search your face for clarity does nothing to dissuade the image. The wide smile you give him is returned in kind, though the arching of a brow is a silent call for an explanation; when all the reply he gets is the folded sheet the second rises to join the first. He gives you an expectant look then, but you just grin and a nod towards the paper in his hand. His gaze is probing as he pulls the thing back to size without breaking eye contact, but there’s nothing of substance to be found in the mirth that dances in your eyes.

“Okay then,” he says on a laughter laced sigh. “I guess I’ll actually have to read this—wait. What _is_ all this? Lab workups… Results…” His mumbles become near silent as he works his way down the page. “Human chorionic gonadotropin levels—hCG, hCG… That’s the pregnancy hormone. And at 7,480 units per milliliter…” 

He looks up at you, eyes suddenly glassy as he breathes out your name. “Baby, sweetheart—are you– I mean you have to be… Right?” 

You nod hard, not trusting your voice not to crack under the weight of your emotions. Faster than you can process the motion you’re being gathered up and squeezed tight. A flurry of _Oh my god_ ’s and declarations of love pour out of him as readily as his tears and your replies ring out in kind. You stay wrapped around each other for several long minutes before Tim finally pulls away enough to look at you. That same dopey, lovesick smile that had brought you to this place in your lives is back as he leans his forehead against yours again.

“We’re going to be _parents_.” His voice is awestruck in that way that says he can’t believe he’s managed to land on the right side of luck yet again.

“Correction: we’re going _awesome_ parents. Way better than all those scrubs that let their kids run around terrorizing the general populace.” 

He laughs even as he shudders. “That’s for damn sure. God, there’s so much to do. How many weeks along are you? For that matter how long have you known? Are you feeling okay? I’m pretty sure you haven’t been experiencing morning sickness, unless you’ve been hiding it from me—you haven’t right? We’re in this together, sweetheart, so–”

You pull him in for a proper kiss then, knowing it’s the only way to stop the deluge of worries and words. He’s resistant at first, still trying to speak even with your lips smushed together, but kneading fingers at his nape sees that nonsense meeting a quick end. It takes a few long moments, but under your expert touch the tension has no choice but to drain away. 

“We got this babe. Yeah?” It comes out as a question, but your expression says that you won’t accept any answer other than a solid _yes_. 

“Yeah. We do,” he agrees, nod resolute and voice steady. “So Missus Wayne, what now?” 

“Now, we eat, Mister Wayne. Spaghetti Monster summoning charms wait for no man, or expecting mother for that matter.”

* * *

****

**Whole  
** [Dick Grayson x Reader]

“Come on Missus Grayson—just give us one last, _biiig_ push.”

“ _I can’t_ ,” you sob, as you dig your head back into the pillow underneath it. The thing is soaked through from a mixture of sweat and tears, and it sticks uncomfortably to your equally wet, exposed skin.

Doctor Thomas and her nurses both assure you that you can, you _must_ , but it’s the man that holds your hand—or rather, allows you to crush his under your punishing grip—that gives you the strength that you need. He tells you of all the love he has for you and praises your strength, but it’s the reminder that the son you’ve waited nearly ten months to meet is just one push away that sees you through.

Aside from the morning sickness that never really abated, your pregnancy had been blessedly incident free. Of course that isn’t to say that you didn’t have the typical complaints of any expecting mother—night sweats were terrible as were swollen ankles, and having to pee every five minutes was hardly ideal—but it wasn’t anything that you couldn’t handle. It wasn’t until you were a week past your due date that things started to get dicey. Worried, you and Dick had rushed to see your obstetrician, but the woman assured you that you were still within the realm of normalcy. When another week passed she told you that, despite its name, Naegele’s rule wasn’t an absolute. By the middle of the third week she’d set the date for a Caesarean. The thought of being cut open wasn’t exactly enticing, but apparently it was what you needed to kick start the labor process. Contractions hit you not long after settling into your private suite at Gotham Memorial and soon after your extended family was being cleared out of the room and your legs were up in stirrups.

Through it all Dick hasn’t left your side once, nor has he complained despite your cursing him and vowing to never _ever_ let him touch you again. His free hand is gentle as it wipes away sweat from your brow and his smile unwavering in the face of your pain-fueled wrath. Even now as you lie panting and red faced he still looks at you like you’re a goddess incarnate, perfection made flesh.

Thomas' urging to push is becoming more of a demand now as is the painful pressure in your lower half. Scraping the very bottom of your reserves you bare down with a guttural sound that’s caught somewhere between a scream and a groan. _That’s it_ , you think as oxygen rushes back into your lungs under a noisy inhale, _I have nothing left to give…_

And then you hear it—the first sounds that your child, your precious little boy, contributes to the outside world.

His cry is keening as it dips and warbles under its own force, and yet it’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Praises and cheers rise up from the doctor and her crew, but you can barely hear them over your own happy sobs. For his part, your husband drops down into a crouch though he doesn’t release your now limp hand. Instead he pulls it to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it; you’re not surprised to feel the warmth of his tears against your skin. You have just enough strength left in you to listlessly roll your head towards him and give him a quivering smile.

“We did it,” you say, voice tired and a touch hoarse.

Wiping at his eyes, Dick shakes his head. “No, _you_ did it, love. My biggest contribution to this whole deal was given months ago.” His quip earns laughs from the other side of the room and an eye roll from you.

“You’d better be glad I love you, Richard John, because that was _terrible_.” You’re joking, of course; there’s no real venom behind your words and he knows it.

His only reply is one of those heart-stopping smiles that has surely played a part in leading you to this moment in time. He rises up to his full height again before bending over to place a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, then both of your cheeks, and finally a chaste press of lips against lips. He lingers in your space after pulling away, allowing his head to rest lightly against yours. No words are exchanged, none are needed. The love you share is a tangible thing in that moment—palpable and cloying, it fills your every sense to leave you on the verge of tears yet again. The scene is made whole when your son is finally cradled against the beat of your heart.

“He’s so perfect. How is he so perfect?” Dick’s words are little more than a whisper as he regards the little bundle.

Hands that usually move with deft confidence and precision tremble now as he reaches out to touch the shock of raven-hued hair that is already flecking out at the thin tips in an attempt to curl. As in response to his father’s touch, the baby’s eyes slowly slide open revealing irises that are the deepest blue; an indigo to rival that of his father’s sapphires as your favorite shade of the color. He blinks up at the man a few times before staring wide eyed, but unfocused, little snuffling noises escaping him all the while. There so much love in Dick’s gaze as looks between you and what you’ve created together, pure and endless love magnified by the diamonds of his tears that have once again started to fall. Now it’s his turn to squeeze at your hand for support.

“Hey there little guy,” he starts after a thick swallow, “you’re late.” He chuckles a bit then, a watery sound, before continuing. “Not gonna lie—you had us worried there for a second, but _my god_ , look at you now… There’s so much that I want to show you, but first I think Doctor Thomas needs to take you for a bit. Don’t worry though, she’s good people. I love you. I love you so, _so_ much.” A gentle peck to the round of his little shoulder punctuates the declaration.

You mumble your own words of adoration before brushing your lips against the babe’s forehead. You reluctantly hand your son over then, making the doctor laugh a bit. She assures you that the testing won’t take too long and then she’s whisking him away beyond the heavy oak door with the nurses on her heels. As the soft _click_ of the lock catching sounds, the full weight of your fatigue settles over you. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, you slump back heavily into the still damp pillow and let your eyes flutter close. Dick’s still joined to you by the hand, and despite the sweat that slicks the shared grip, you find the contact comforting. Tiredness has seeped into your everything and just as you’re ready to fully give in to sleep’s beckoning call he speaks, though his words are lost to you.

A slurred “Mmm?” is all the reply you can manage.

“Thank you,” he says again.

You’re too drowsy to produce anything that goes beyond the basic hum you’d given him before, though you do manage to open your eyes, if only just. Your lackluster response earns a huff of laughter and another forehead kiss; he mumbles something—possibly _I love you_ , it’s spoken too softly for you to be sure—against the wrinkle of your brow before continuing.

“All I ever wanted after my parents… I just, I always wanted a family. I know I have Bruce and Alfie and my siblings, and they’re my family too but this…” His words trail off into a wondrous sigh. “When I found you it was like finding a piece of myself that I didn’t even know was missing and now we have a son, _our son_ , and I just—I didn’t know it was possible to feel this full. So yeah—thank you love, really.”

There’s so much that you want to say in response to that, but sleep-addled or no you’re not sure that you’ll be able to express what’s in your heart as clearly as he has. Thankfully three words, even spoken at a whisper against his lips, are an excellent start.

* * *

**No Words Needed  
** [Older!Damian Wayne x Reader]

_"I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date! No time to say ‘Hello’, goodbye! I’m late! I’m late!”_

The voices that sing in unison are at two different ends of the spectrum.  
One, a child’s soprano—reedy and full of the enthusiasm and unbridled joy that only toddlers seem to be able to harness—the other a man’s baritone, unrefined by training, but no less melodious for it.

Even people who know him personally would be surprised to varying degrees by such a display from the youngest Wayne child—well, _man_ now—but if you hadn’t known that Damian was capable of something more than the cool aplomb that swathed him like a second skin you never would have agreed to see him again after that first date; and that’s saying nothing of marring him and starting a family.

Of course he’ll always have his barriers. Like China’s Great Wall or the pyramids of Giza, they’ve been built to withstand the ages. The only way to really get through to the heart of him is by his leave and that’s a thing rarely granted. You’re still not sure what he saw in you that he deemed worthy enough to be allowed in, but by god are you grateful. He’s a maze, full of looping halls and meandering branches and false ends. His love language is just as nuanced, often times being at odds with itself, but over the years you’ve learned to navigate it and all its intricate minutiae. You know when to push and when to let things go; and defusing disagreements between him and the other Wayne men is an art that, while not mastered, definitely falls under your purview.

This acquired knowledge is what tells you to slip away from the den’s doorway rather than entering the room as you had planned. Because while he shares more of himself with you than anyone else, there are still parts that remain cast in shadow, hidden and tucked away from any eyes that would pry. You know that it stems out of a lack of trust—not for you, but rather himself.

Damian’s early childhood is a fractured wasteland, made so by traumas survived and the twisted parental failings of his mother. It’s only through the passage of time and the loving support of those that truly care for him that he’s been able to reconcile with it all, but even then only just. It’s still a delicate balance for him, keeping his past from tainting his present and swallowing his future whole, but he pursues that precious equilibrium with the same dogged determination that drives his every action—more earnestly even, given all that there is to lose.

To that end he pours every ounce of himself into giving your daughter everything he never received during his own formative years—love, stability, acceptance, and care all in their purest forms—and in doing so you’ve seen him change.  
Heal.  
Move just that little bit closer to being whole.

It’s a beautiful thing to watch and you find your heart aching in the best of ways every time you’re allowed to bear witness to it.

But even after years of emotional growth he still occasionally takes issues with anyone, even you— _especially_ you—seeing him in what he considers to be a vulnerable state. Most days he’s able to pull himself back from the edge of the abyss that is his insecurities, but today isn’t one of those days. You can see it in the slight way his shoulders tense and in the stiffening of his spine. He doesn’t turn towards you, nor does he allow his voice to waver as he continues to sing in time with the child in his lap and the harried rabbit on screen, but you’ve long since learned how to read between his lines.

 _Please don’t_ , comes his simple, silent plea.

 _Don’t worry, I won’t_ , you say with a pat on the door’s frame that’s just loud enough for him to hear.

Damian does spare you a glance then, and his eyes are smiling even as his lips continue to echo the song.

_Thank you, **ruuhi**. I love you._

You smile softly back. _Of course, **qalbi**. I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dami would totally teach his s/o Arabic and they'd use endearments from said language do not fight me on this.  
> Or square the fuck up, it’s whatever lol.
> 
> All Arabic that appears in this fill was taken from this site so if it’s wrong blame that lol.  
> https://www.quora.com/How-do-you-say-my-love-in-Arabic-What-are-some-other-terms-of-endearment
> 
>  _Ruuhi_ = My soul  
>  _Qalbi_ = My heart
> 
> Also Tim has four first names and that just cracks me up to no end...


	3. Dating J. Todd Be Like (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I procrastinated writing the Dick and Dami's sections from chapter 2 because I saw a gif on tumblr that had the most chaotic relationship energy ever which in turn made me think of our favorite zom-zom boi.
> 
> Anyways, I'll probably post more little shorts like this for him and the rest of the guys as the mood strikes (thus the "Pt. 1" bit)...

“Hey cute stuff.” 

You look away from the TV long enough to shoot your boyfriend a smile.

“Hiya handsome. What’s up?”

“Oooh, nothing much.”

There’s something about the way he says it that tells you that’s a goddamn lie, but you’re too deep into this episode to give it too much thought. And then he’s moving directly into your line of sight, totally eclipsing the screen—quite the feat that, given its size—and commanding your attention. Eyes narrowed, you stare dispassionately at the crotch that’s now placed oh-so-conveniently in your face; shoving more chips into your mouth, you hold the stare for several seconds more before finally tilting your head back to meet his eye. Of course, _of fucking course_ , he’s sporting his signature shit-eating grin, and it takes every ounce of self-control your frame possesses not to sack him in the nuts.

“ _What?_ ” you half whine, half demand when he doesn’t move or speak.

“Oh so I need a reason to look at my beautiful ass girlfriend now?”

“You do when you’re being weird about it,” you give back. “Now what the hell do you want, Todd? I’m tryin’ to watch this.” You shift your body off to the side then, trying to look around his massive thighs, but he shifts with you—though not before you catch a flash of color that you’re pretty sure is _in front_ of the screen and not _on_ it, but you can’t be sure because _he’s still in the way fucking hell._

You sigh then—long, loud, and dramatic—as you allow yourself to flop backwards. “Are you bored or something? Is that it? Do you need head scratches like a goddamn cat?”

A snicker sounds then and you _know_ that it had to have come from an outside source, but before you can even think about speaking on it Jay is leaning down into your face. Calloused fingers trace up your jawline and back further still; all the while warm, candy-sweetened breath fans over your face and you find yourself closing your eyes despite the annoyance that had just been coursing through you. Your body's reaction to him is Pavlovian in its swiftness; his hands always brings pleasure in one form or another, and given the way he's touching you now—well you can hardly hold it against yourself for the quick switch up. Gentle hands slide down from your nape to rub at either side of your neck. The turtleneck that you wear mutes his touch, and it only makes you crave more of it, more of _him_. The last dregs of the irritation that you’d felt vanishes as you lean forward, lips pouting up ready for the kiss that has to be coming–

_"WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT!?!"_

Your yell loses volume as the neck of your sweater is suddenly yanked up around the whole of your head. Cackles from both your boyfriend and the redheaded dumbass that he calls best friend sound out as Jay twists the stretchy material and fucking _ties it in a knot._ All the while your arms flail while curses and threats—no, _promises_ —spill out of you with indignant vitriol.

“I hope it was worth it, asswipe!” you yell over the the heavy footfalls of the fleeing pair. “You’ve just landed the leading role in a Pink song. _‘Just you and your hand tonight’_ , and every night because the candy shop is closed indefinitely!”

Roy’s braying laughter only grows louder at your words and you can just make out Jay’s pained groan. The sound leaves you feeling more than satisfied as you set about releasing yourself from the cloth prison that your idiot boyfriend has trapped you in.

**Author's Note:**

> Other places this fic can be found:  
> http://thepuckishrogue.tumblr.com/post/180707736256/the-batboys-in-shes-behind-the-sofa
> 
> [feel free to stop by my tumblr and say hi! ya know, if you want and if the site hasn't killed itself completely off...]


End file.
